


Maybe I've Always Been More Comfortable in Chaos

by BarrysLightningRod



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Borrowing Problems From the Future, Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Sexual Content, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 12:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9071362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarrysLightningRod/pseuds/BarrysLightningRod
Summary: Since they moved in together, Iris is concerned over Barry having nightmares, until she finally confronts him about what's going on. My take on Barry revealing his vision of the future to Iris and her reaction. Meant to be compliant with episode 3x09 and the 3x10 promo. Written as a gift for WestAllen Secret Santa.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArgentLives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentLives/gifts).



> For the premise, “WestAllen helping each other out/hurt/comfort with emotional loss/mental health too and anything that shows them being each other’s support and actually addressing/dealing with trauma.“

That he’s having nightmares isn’t necessarily what she finds alarming.

She’s aware of the signs and symptoms that can manifest status post-trauma exposure. With the exception of the journalism elective that she now owes her job to, her degree is comprised entirely of graduate-level psychology courses after all, but she doesn’t need a degree to know that Barry’s predisposition to intense sleep disturbances is correlated to the distressing incidents of his childhood, and more recently, his adulthood.

During the first few months he lived with them, his condition was the worst it had ever been. Iris can’t recall how many times she woke to Barry’s screams from across the hallway, or to the sound of her father bursting into his bedroom to try to calm him. All she could do was listen from afar, powerless to help her best friend, and also somewhat prohibited from doing so. Whenever she raced out of bed to be with Barry, her dad always told her, “Go back to sleep, baby. I’ve got it.” Sometimes Joe didn’t get it, requiring a nighttime visit to the emergency room.  

It took a few trials with several different therapists, but there was definite improvement after he started meeting with Dr. Quigley weekly, every Wednesday after school, Iris remembers.

“She doesn’t believe me, Iris,” Barry confided to her after a few sessions with his new psychologist. “I can tell she doesn’t believe me about my dad, but she’s nicer than the others.

“Her eyes are like my mom’s,” he added sadly, and Iris had given him the tightest hug she could muster.

The nightmares didn’t stop entirely, but they dwindled and were less severe to the extent that Joe allowed her to comfort Barry if he requested it. Most of the time, Iris was the one Barry called for anyway, or her bedroom door was the one he softly knocked on, especially during thunderstorms.

Gradually, Barry recovered enough to no longer need regular assistance from a doctor. At this point, the two of them entered high school, and any of Barry’s residual fear was being channeled into his studies and hobbies. Thus surfaced his profound interest in supernatural phenomena that sometimes defied scientific explanation. There began his curiosity in forensic analysis. Here was the origin of his thorough collection of stories and potential evidence that might account for what happened the night his mother was dead, that might exonerate his father from Iron Heights.

Iris can count three incidences of nightmares since Barry stopped seeing his therapist.  She’s not sure if there are more, given that until now, she and Barry haven’t shared a roof since they turned eighteen, but she’s aware of only these three.

She knows of one during their first semester of undergrad. Barry had paused in the middle of a phone call with her detailing how his initial round of midterm exams had gone. She could feel that something was bothering him.

“What is it, Bear?” she had probed patiently. “Are you worried you didn’t do so well?”

“Nothing…it’s silly,” he had insisted.

“I already know it’s not,” she swore.

She heard him sigh over the line, conceding: “I saw him in my sleep last night.”

She didn’t need any additional details to recognize who he was talking about.

“Are you alright?” she had whispered into her phone. “Do you want me to take a train and come visit this weekend?”

“No, no. I’m okay, Iris,” he had reassured her. “It just hasn’t happened in a long time.”

“Anything specific that might have prompted it?” she inquired sympathetically.

“Probably the stress of the semester catching up to me. And the fact that I might have failed my physics exam on electrostatics,” he chuckled. But she knew he was trying to lighten the mood so she wouldn’t worry.

Iris went to see him that weekend anyway, she and a tray of his favorite chocolate-chip cookies.

She learned of the second incident thanks to Patty cornering her at the precinct last year, pleading with her to discuss Barry over coffee. Iris had agreed out of concern for Barry, though she immediately regretted the decision to the moment she and Patty were settled at Jitters with their mugs.

“I know that Barry is practically your brother,” Patty had opened the conversation with.

If not for the steaming chai latte in her hands, Iris would have stood up and left Patty right then and there, but she did her best to maintain composure.

“I understand that your loyalty is obviously to him, and not me-” (that drove Iris to take a sudden deep interest in her mug) “-but I was hoping that you would think I’m good for him, so you’d want to help me figure him out.”

It wasn’t that Iris ever had a problem with Patty. In fact, she _shouldn't_ have had a problem with her. Her own father admired her determination and drive, and Joe didn’t readily give his respect to any coworker let alone deem them worthy of being his partner. She even had to admit that since the disaster of the singularity, Barry’s unabashedly happy smile hadn’t appeared until he began dating Patty. She didn’t _like_ to admit that, for some strange, churning reason that she couldn’t quite pinpoint at the time (how obvious it seems in hindsight that it was because of feelings for him), but it was true: Patty _was_ good for him, more than Iris believed she could be.

Instantly, she had thought of Eobard when Patty let slip that Barry had been waking up from bad dreams. When she confronted Barry about it later though, she learned these nightmares were…different. She wasn’t proud of the way her heart sank when she realized how much Barry cared for Patty, but now she accepts she had coveted that kind of love from him without knowing it at the time.

The third incident, she’s a current witness to.

And what she finds alarming is that Barry isn’t calling for her help like the eleven-year-old boy who used to.

She pushes the covers off to switch on the lamp settled atop her nightstand. It was time to get to the bottom of what was going on with him, time to learn why he kept waking in the middle of night, shaking violently.

When it first happened, she was simply too sleepy to realize what was ensuing, but when it became a recurring incident, she couldn’t help serious worry. It was always the same episode: she would wake to him quivering next to her, he would take a few deep breaths to steady himself, he would stand to walk to the bathroom, she would hear the door closing and the faucet running, she would feel the bed dip when he climbed back in beside her.

He would also pull her close to his chest before drifting back to sleep. When she would open her eyes in the morning, it was always to his pleasantly cheerful face, as though nothing out-of-the-ordinary or worth mentioning had occurred during the night.

Admittedly, she hadn’t probed him about it because she was waiting for him to reveal that he was having nightmares only to be disappointed every night his arms wrapped around her yet again while she pretended to be asleep.

She isn’t going to pretend this time.

The bathroom door swings open and Barry steps out before halting at the sight of her sitting up in bed, awake, alert, awaiting him.

“Iris,” he remarks, noticeably taken aback. “Did I wake you?”

“It’s fine,” she replies, watching him carefully before the words come out of her mouth: “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Barry stares, momentarily agape. She can practically see the wheels turning in his head, knows he’s contemplating how he’s going to disguise this, how he’s going to put on his best performance to assure her nothing is wrong.

Sure enough, his astonishment becomes a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Everything’s alright, Iris,” he starts. His tone is gentle, but it still sounds like a recital, one he’s rehearsed, one she’s heard too many times. “I’m sorry I woke you-“

“Barry,” she interrupts, not able to bear another second of his exhibit. “Not this again.”

He has enough shame to at least glance down uneasily, fidgeting with his fingers, though he persists.

“You need to sleep, Iris,” he says quietly to the floor. “You have to get up in a few hours for work, and then later we have the museum grand opening-“

“Barry,” she warns again, more firmly, refusing to be coerced, no matter how genuine he was about her needing rest, no matter what might account for this display, no matter the excuse for shutting her out this time.

“Iris,” he beseeches, still unable to meet her eyes.

She’s surprised at her own austerity, given that he’s likely dealing with something grave, but she knows when she has to be strict with Barry.

“You cannot keep things like this from me,” she declares, figuring it’s best to just come out with it explicitly. She draws a sharp intake of breath before continuing: “Not if you love me.”

That prompts him to finally meet her eyes, which she’s stunned to see are brimming with tears.

“I do love you, Iris,” he murmurs, the tears falling now. “More than anything. That’s why this is so hard.”

She’s torn between heartbreak at his shattered expression and resolve to resume her interrogation. More than any of those however, she’s conscious of an unnerving apprehension creeping over her after considering his words and the way he’s quietly weeping. The stillness of the room, the distance between where she sits in bed to where he stands across from it, the shadow the dull lamp casts over his face only contributes to the unsettling eeriness, and to the impression deep in Iris’s bones that something isn’t quite right.

After what seems like an eternity to her (she wonders what it must seem like for Barry), she opens her mouth to speak.

“You still have to tell me,” she states, simply but determinedly.

To her surprise, he doesn’t object further and nods, outwardly accepting defeat.

He swallows. “Tomorrow.”

She raises her brows questioningly.

“I’ll tell you everything tomorrow, Iris. I promise. I just-can we please have this last night?” The corners of his eyes crinkle with his plea. “Before everything changes.”

What to make of such a somber request, Iris has no idea, but she concurs, for him, in spite of her growing sense of uneasiness.

“Tomorrow,” she agrees, before planning further: “After the museum opening?”

He appears tense, but nods slowly. She moves to switch the lamp off and leans back against the pillows, turning onto her shoulder to face him. Barry remains hesitant, evidently unsure of what to do next, until she motions for him to get into bed beside her. He complies, carefully settling onto the mattress, supine at first, before deciding to twist his body in her direction.

They lay eye-to-eye with Iris conscious of every heave of his chest, every blink of his lashes. The familiarity of their positions, of the setting, of the context reminds her of so many nights before, years ago, when she would gaze at him and he at her until they weren’t sure who fell asleep first. She’s particularly struck by the recollection of the first night her father let her tend to her eleven-year-old best friend, the first time she was free to hold him while he sobbed into her shoulder.

“Can I-can I still hold you?” Barry’s subdued voice inquires after a lengthy silence, shaking her from the memory. “Or are you too upset with me?”

Instead of speaking, Iris reaches for him.


	2. Chapter 2

She realizes presently that she’s never actually set foot inside the Time Vault, though she is familiar with what it looks like thanks to the surveillance camera they used to watch over Wally and Jesse after sheltering them there during the induced Particle Accelerator explosion. _Had that really only been months ago?_ It felt like years, though she suspects maybe that’s the effect standing in a room designated as a Time Vault can have.

Truth be told, she had forgotten all about Barry’s promise to disclose why he was tossing and turning each night. Coverage of the STAR Labs Museum opening accounted for the bustling activity in today’s newsroom, most of which she and another co-worker were put in charge of. She was supervising more and more major CCPN projects lately, a challenge she was proud to take on, but a responsibility that stressed her nonetheless. She was aware it was paving the road for an inevitable promotion that Scott had hinted was likely coming her way, which motivated and excited her, minus the added pressure to execute flawlessly in both reporting and in management.

In fact, Iris was so preoccupied at work that she had even overlooked that today was meant to be Wally’s first time accompanying Barry for field observation. At this reminder, and once her associate promised her everything was under control, she hurriedly headed home to change and catch an Uber to STAR Labs.

Even though Barry was on-edge more than typical, to the extent that he lashed out at Wally for overstepping his bounds, Iris still didn’t remember her scheduled talk with Barry until he had gently nudged her later that evening, gesturing for them to slip away from the jovial chatter of museum guests, the waiters parading trays of _hors d'oeuvres,_ and the photographers flashing their cameras,leading her downstairs past the cortex, Speed Lab, and into the Time Vault.

“What are we doing here?” she asks, feeling that sense of discomfort that had been quelled all day tiptoe down her spine once again.

Barry affords her a perturbed glance before turning to the control panel and clearing his throat.

“Scan the archives for April 25, 2024,” he orders.

“Scanning archives,” a feminine robotic voice echoes.

As she watches the stream of holographic images shuffle to locate the date Barry had named, Iris begins to predict the direction this encounter might take. She’s heard of the infamous time encyclopedia hidden away by Thawne. She owes the discovery that she would become Barry’s wife to these archives after all. It wouldn’t be unlike Barry to be bothered by something he might have seen from the future and to project that fear onto the present.

“Barry,” Iris interjects, fascinated by the figures passing before her eyes, but also somewhat dubious. She’s always believed in the impossible because of Barry, even before speedsters and metas. She believes in his ability to travel to the past, to glimpse into the future. But what all of Barry’s journeys through time had ultimately confirmed to her was its malleability. More than anything, they had enforced the value and weight of the present. Destiny was a potent force it was true, but so were the choices today offered, and the free will to decide.

She endures: “Barry, whatever you saw-”

“Iris.”

He’s facing her now, and this time, the creeping apprehension engulfs her in full force, just from the way he’s looking at her. She’s so lost in his desolate gaze that she doesn’t notice that the hologram of archives has stopped shifting. When she manages to tear her eyes from his, they meet the image of a newspaper front page.

“Flash Missing. Vanishes in Crisis,” she reads, skimming the article’s introductory paragraph. “After an epic street battle with the Reverse Flash…” She feels understanding flood over her. “Oh Bear, is this what you’ve been having nightmares about?” she asks sympathetically, moving to hug him-

Except he doesn’t meet her where her arms reach out, instead leaning his head back against the wall dejectedly.

“Iris,” he repeats, and there is too much tenderness in his voice for Iris’s liking. More startling than that is how he didn’t move to embrace her. All she wants is to hold him close, squeeze him tightly, kiss his fears and worries away, but he isn’t letting her.

She opts for a different approach. After all, she isn’t going to judge his reaction to learning of his disappearance…or potential death. She doesn’t even know how she would take to the news of her own, if she were in his place.

“This doesn’t mean anything, Barry,” she begins calmly, though she can’t deny the dread that his possible vanishing fills her with. Nonetheless, she stands by her conviction that time is flexible. Hadn’t Flashpoint proven to her exactly that?   

“I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future…” she tries again, inspired by his own words to her on Christmas Eve.

“Iris,” he utters for a third time, and she finally realizes that she hasn’t once allowed him to speak properly since they entered the vault.  

“I’ve seen this headline before,” he explains, sounding just as crestfallen as he looks. “Two years ago, when I first stumbled upon the Time Vault. This newspaper is how I learned that you and I are married in the future.”

She frowns. “How?”

“Because it used to be written by Iris West-Allen.”

Iris glances up at the newspaper once more, locating the author byline: _Julie Greer_. It’s a name she doesn’t recognize.

“I don’t understand…”

She looks to Barry for clarification, feeling more confused than troubled at the moment, but he won’t stop watching her with forsaken eyes, though the usual compassion that he views her with starts to tint his green irises. Mild reassurance catches up to her, Barry’s gaze will do that to her, except that doesn’t put a cap on her bewildered curiosity.

He takes a deep breath. “The future’s changed, Iris.”

 _Hasn’t it always?_ she wants to challenge, but she waits for him to continue.

“When Jay and I tapped into the Speed Force to get rid of the Philosopher’s Stone, I did something I’ve never done before, without knowing it at the time.” Barry scrutinizes her carefully: “I traveled to the future.”

Iris senses her heart palpitate against her sternum. Heat courses through her with every pulse. 

“The future’s changed,” he restates. “I saw Savitar murder you.”

The subsequent stillness is so palpable that Iris swears Barry can hear her heartbeat from where he stands across from her. If he doesn’t hear that, he has to sense the infinite questions racing through her mind.

He doesn’t move or say anything, instead surveying her with a kind of vigilance she’s never seen from him before.

She supposes he’s waiting for her to respond, of course he would, only…she has no idea _how_ to. It’s not the first time someone seems to have more knowledge and control of her own life over her. But being informed that she’s going to wed Barry versus learning that she’s going to die are two very different events.

“What do you mean you saw?” she finds herself asking, still trying to make sense of his revelation before she allows herself to react. “What exactly did you see?”

Barry shakes his head, pupils glistening momentarily before wiping fiercely at his eyes, refusing to let himself cry in front of her, undoubtedly in an attempt to remain strong and composed.  

“I saw him murder you,” he surfaces, reiterating what he had before. She’s not obtuse enough to conclude from this that her death is gruesome. It would be like Barry to spare her details to not terrify her.

Except she’s conscious of terror provoking her nonetheless.

“How?” she presses, oddly calm despite budding fear and uncertainty that she isn’t sure is rational or not.

Barry blinks at her.

“How does he murder me?”

“Iris,” Barry cautions.

“HOW?” Her relentless outburst startles Barry and herself.

All he does is stare blankly.

She turns away hurriedly, pacing to the other side of the room, suddenly too conscious of how he’s treading around her, probably anticipating her detonation at the news of her murder at the hands of a Speed God, probably waiting for her to express at least some sort of emotion. How can she though when all that’s coursing through her is numb disbelief?

Normally she wouldn’t take a foretelling like this seriously, normally she wouldn’t resolve herself to knowledge of the future, normally she would insist on the impact of the present. She had been forewarned that she and Barry would get together, but that had been destiny because she wanted it to be. Surely, by that logic, anything could be willed or willed away, even if it was her own death.

Unless…she was kidding herself and she was actually more helpless over her own fate than she previously believed herself to be. Perhaps she and Barry are together in every timeline and on every earth because the will of the universe had written them as such.

 _No_ , she refutes vehemently. _I love Barry._ Destiny put him in front of her, that much was true, but it was her heart that chose to love him.

Still, she can’t shrug off the fear stirring within her. Was it because Barry had actually traveled to the future and witnessed this event this time? Was it because of the newspaper byline change, that just now did she start to piece together as further evidence that she indeed dies?

Savitar’s ominous prophecy rings through her ears: _I know your destinies. One shall betray you. One shall fall. One shall suffer a fate far worse than death…_

She’s not sure when she starts shaking.

“Iris, it’s okay to not know what to feel,” she hears Barry’s wary voice from behind her, which is still soft, despite his tension, and it takes that for her to realize that she’s been quiet for a while now. She knows his words are genuine, and not part of some speech he had prepared beforehand.

“Whatever it is,” he goes on, more empathetic now, “I just want you to know that I’m right here with you.”

It is this earnest statement that finally breaks her. Besides the insight that Barry would not be acting this way if he were not subject to something that truly convinced him of her impending death, it is this grasp of what death really entails: separation, from not only livelihood, ambitions, hopes and dreams, but from the people she loves most.

Her friends. Wally. Her father. Barry.

_I just want you to know that I’m right here with you._

But he wasn’t always going to be right here. No matter what he vowed, if she were dead, Barry wouldn’t be with her. He could promise his presence and his love, but if she were to take this vision of her supposed death seriously, she was going to die alone. Even worse, she was meant to be brutally killed, fated to be ripped from those who were closest to her.  

She turns back to him, unexpected tears gathering, still unable to help the questions that escape her, even if they come out more desperately. Each answer he gives pushes her further from skepticism and closer to alarm, until she asks the question she’s been putting off, though perhaps the most important one.

“How long until it happens?”

By now she’s unabashedly crying, all panic and trepidation let loose.

At the sight of her weeping, Barry strides over to her, pulling her close to him. This might have been what he was awaiting, for her to shatter so that he could offer himself, but that awareness doesn’t make his arms any less comforting. She welcomes his embrace, buries her head in the shirt of his suit, soaking it with her tears while she sobs against his chest. For a moment, she ignores the future to be grateful for his company in the present, even somewhat more grateful that he is the one who shared this with her, truth be told. Had her dad been the one to do it, she knows she would have ended up consoling him, and she’s too protective of Wally to imagine him having to break the news of her death to her. Only Barry could provide her the space to process that she needed.

It’s difficult to tell how long they stand in the Time Vault, wrapped in each other. Briefly, she wonders if there are still guests upstairs, contemplates whether or not her CCPN coworkers are looking for her. How to explain her disappearance from the party to them at work tomorrow? How to continue living her life normally as though she didn’t just learn of her imminent demise?

She stirs beneath Barry’s grip on her to look up at him, and he shifts to accommodate her, though neither one of them lets go.

“How long until it happens?” she poses again, her eyes boring into his.

Something in Barry’s demeanor had changed, perhaps prompted by her tears. No longer does he appear as disheartened as he was before he held her.

“It’s not going to happen.” As staunch as he is in his tone and his expression, for the first time Iris can remember, her unwavering faith in Barry is challenged. She can’t articulate anything, can only interpret this answer to mean that she is dying sooner than she thought. More tears blur her view of his face.

“Hey.”

He tucks his fingers beneath her chin, gently propelling her head upward so that they’re nose-to-nose. His thumb meets her cheek, caressing her skin before promptly smoothing her tears away until she can see him clearly again, until she can read the determination that glints in his pupils.

“I swear I will protect you.”

She sniffs, and sinks into him once more, this pledge more uplifting than its predecessor, even if it didn’t promise that she would live. It amazes her how Barry’s judgement could be assertively bleak or idealistic. Sometimes he was right when he branded a situation as either or, but he was never wrong when he promised he would do everything in his capacity to ensure her safety. That she would trust. That she couldn’t doubt for as long as she lived, however long that was.

Suddenly, Iris doesn’t think she can stand another second in the vault. She’s struck with an urgent desire to be as far away from STAR Labs as possible, to be alone with him, away from any reminders of the future. She glances up from beneath his arm once more.

“Let’s go home,” she proposes, soft in her entreaty.

He nods as though understanding, moves to steady her against him, ready to pick her up and speed them out of there, only she stops him.

“Barry,” she pleas. “Can we walk instead?”


	3. Chapter 3

The walk to their apartment is silent, but how she and Barry refuse to let go of each other the entire way speaks volumes.

At home, she lays down on their bed in her nightclothes, vacantly staring up at the ceiling, contemplating how almost twenty-four hours ago, she had been laden with worry over Barry’s nightmares, oblivious to his reliving her ruthless murder every time he closed his eyes.

The mattress caves in slightly as Barry sits beside her, clad in sweats and a T-shirt, still cautiously observing her like he had ever since the revelation. She doesn’t take her eyes off the ceiling when she queries for the third time that night:

“How long until it happens?”

She feels his fingers intertwine with hers.

“Five months,” is his calm reply. He squeezes her palm for added measure.

She closes her eyes. At least she’d make it to twenty-eight.

Barry lets go temporarily to circle the back of her hand with his thumb, clearing his throat.

“You know, a wise journalist once told me to stop beating myself up about my previous mistakes,” he initiates.

Her eyes flutter open. As much as Iris thinks she doesn’t want to listen to a pep-talk right now, no matter how well-intentioned she knows it is, her chest constricts at this small touch of lightheartedness, and she finds herself wanting him to continue. Of course Barry would know how to capture her attention in the most Barry-like way possible.

“She told me I couldn’t keep constantly going over the what-ifs and the why-nots,” he continues, recalling what she had told him weeks ago in the Speed Lab.

“I would take that a step further, and apply it to the future.” It’s evident that he’s choosing his words thoughtfully. “If guilt isn’t going to change the past, then fear isn’t going to change the future.”

Iris turns to him reproachfully. “You aren’t afraid?”

His eyes shine faintly. “I’m terrified, Iris,” he admits. “And if I’m scared, I can only imagine what you’re going through. What I’m trying to say is that it’s okay to be afraid, but I don’t want you to surrender. I don’t want you to let this dictate your life. The future isn’t permanent, what I saw isn’t guaranteed to happen…”

“You seemed to think it was,” she counters. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have been haunted by it in your sleep. Otherwise you would have told me about it earlier. Even in the Time Vault just now, the way you were looking at me-I could tell you believed I’m really going to be killed.”

She studies his face. “So what changed?”

He’s still surveying her during his swift intake of breath.

“What changed,” his speech is throaty, but resolute, “is that I saw you in distress. I saw you in tears. I saw you hurting.

“And that…that tore me apart Iris.” He looks away briefly, quivering quietly, as though suppressing a sob, before facing her again.

“I can’t stand to see you like that. I _won’t_ see you like that. I’ll be damned if you’re reduced to that, moving forward in fear, and tiptoeing your way through life. Nobody deserves that, _especially_ not you.”

He grows louder and more steadfast with every sentence. He’s speaking rapidly and vehemently, as though his mind is moving a mile a minute, which Iris sometimes believes to be true, while his mouth struggles to keep up.

“I swear on my life, as both The Flash and as Barry Allen, that anything or anyone, any meta, any _Speed God_ ,” he practically spits the words, “that thinks they can do that to you, thinks they can hurt you, thinks they can scare you away from reaching your full potential, from living your life, from being yourself, that thinks they can rid this world of _Iris West_ , will be proven wrong.

“I won’t let you die, Iris,” he declares, with a hint of finality that she detects is more for him than for her. “But if I let you give up, I _will_ be letting you die.”

That hint she can tell is for her.  

She isn’t stunned after such a statement from Barry, but his fortitude and fierce defense of her is promising. She isn’t sure if she’ll survive five months from now, but she is sure that Barry would sooner give up his own life than let anything touch her or taint her sense of wellbeing. Of this she’s certain because she would readily do the same for him

She still can’t promise definitively that his words alleviate all her worries. It’s a foreign feeling, to be at this level of unease with Barry right next to her, uttering words of solace, holding her hand.

Iris isn’t used to it. Barry was her comfort, her safety, her light. If Savitar took that from her without actually killing her, what did she have left? She might as well already be dead.

Her eyes well at this realization, and though her vision is hazy, she can still make out the moment his features flood with sympathy.

“Iris…” he breathes.

“Can you hold me?” she sobs, echoing his request from last night. “Now that everything’s changed.”

She understands now what his grim words to her yesterday meant. Everything _had_ changed. Henceforth, nothing would be the same. She would be conscious of every move she made, every word she spoke, every path she took, wondering if it would lead her away or closer to death. Perhaps there was some benefit in Barry keeping this from her, but her journalistic integrity calls for truth, no matter what the stakes, no matter the torment they might induce.

Barry reaches across her to turn the bedside lamp off. Consistent with her appeal, and with every night since his nightmares emerged again, his arms encircle her, only this time, there are no secrets between them, there is no pretending, only the two of them basking in each other and in whatever time they might have left together, starting with tonight.

She isn’t sure whether minutes or hours pass, is only cognizant that she doesn’t slip into slumber, despite glaring at the white cotton of Barry’s T-shirt as he holds her close. She resolves herself to a restless night, hoping this is only a one-time occurrence and not something she should come to expect until she dies. She’d like to rest peacefully before she’s forced to rest permanently thanks to Savitar. 

“Mhmm,” she chuckles lightly to herself at her dark humor, briefly glancing up from her focus on Barry’s shirt to view his face. To her surprise, she discovers that he’s just as awake as she is.

His gaze is too intent while he searches her. In the black of the room, his eyes shine distinctly, two fallen stars that landed in her bed. She’s trying to read him, but figures he’s attempting to do the same to her. Maybe he was confused by her unexpected snicker, or perhaps heartened by it.  

She pretends that they're engaged in a staring contest, like so many they had when they were younger. She remembers always losing to him, remembers deeming his pretty long eyelashes an unfair advantage, remembers how he would sheepishly hang his head in flattered embarrassment.

Barry’s lashes flutter.

“Ha,” Iris points out, her voice subdued after a period of silence. “You blinked.”

Maybe Barry understands the allusion to their childhood game, but if he does, he doesn’t laugh or even crack a smile. Instead he blinks once more before edging forward to catch her tongue between his lips, sucking gently. It's an unexpected gesture, but familiarly tender nonetheless in a way that could only be so with Barry. 

The quiet is deafening other than the wet sound of his mouth fixed to hers. Iris opens her lips hungrily, welcomes the desire for him, welcomes the opportunity to prove Savitar wrong, to show that she could still revel in Barry and find amenity with him, in spite of what was coming or what wasn’t.

She assumes Barry might be contemplating the same thing as he twists to settle himself on top of her and she readily pulls him closer. She decides he is, judging by his urgency as he moves from her lips, to her neck, to her navel, until he’s finally baring her thighs.  

He spreads her wide and she closes her eyes at the move, grateful for darkness, but also desperate for enlightenment at his touch.

“Are you still afraid, Iris?” he murmurs from beneath her. She shivers at the gust of his warm breath, can feel him exhaling compassion against her. 

She shakes her head, her hands searching for him until they find the tousle of his hair.

“Not of Savitar.”

He hesitates, and she can discern that he’s not sure if he believes her. Her fingers curl against his head, assuring him.

“It’s true,” she insists, shifting slightly in anticipation of what was to come. “I’m not afraid of him anymore, but…”

He blows softly on her exposed center, and Iris shudders again.

“But?” he whispers.

She inhales, her breath shaky and tattered, and even though he’s the one bowing, she’s the one confessing.

“I’m afraid of not being with you.”

He rewards her honesty with his mouth, which consumes her like she's luxury, like her flesh is the richest thing it's ever tasted.

As she lifts her hips to meet his strokes, she figures if she gets to experience this type of bliss with Barry every night until her assumed death, let Savitar come for her. She’s already felt heaven and it’s under his tongue, and she knows hell would be anywhere without him.

He licks her soothingly while she floats, and as her euphoria gradually wanes, he doesn’t break contact without pressing a final kiss between her legs. He surfaces, slowly easing back up her body to draw her nearer, until they’re practically lined, rib-to-rib.

 “Then you’ll never have to be afraid,” he swears. And finally, for the first time that night, his words console her.


End file.
